Hardliner
by Isao Fujita
Summary: -3639 BBY : The cold war between the Empire and the Republic is reaching its apex. As the burden of the war is increasingly trying for the Jedi order, Ralph Tarkin, a young and ambitious Jedi knight, struggle to find the sense of his commitment. One-Shot.


Hi everyone! Just for you to know, English is not my first language –since I mainly a French writer. I however _do_ hope that you will find the style decent and robust in its own right^^

This was also for me an opportunity to share my work with the English-speaking community, and to further integrate into the fandom ;)

The story is happening several years after the treaty of Coruscant, in _-3639 BBY._

Although the narrative standpoint is internal, the character' thoughts are to be considered with some distanciation.

This is an OS, however, if you liked it, I actually have plans for developing the main character' story and background.

If you enjoyed the reading, or if you have any remarks to make, please do not hesitate to leave a review! ;)

_Republic heavy cruiser "Temperance", hyperspace_

From the conference room, Ralph Tarkin could hardly hear the endless hum of the engines; even the slight but continuous trepidations that usually shackled the ship were barely perceptible, attenuated by the battery of gyroscopes that supported the floor: had he not knew about it, he would probably have not been able to guess that he were on a spaceship. This was precisely one of the reasons why he had decided to work there, in this cold, unfamiliar, he would even say sterile, place, instead of enjoying the flight from the comfort of its own quarters. Difficulties to focus, irritability and increased sensitivity to any external perturbation: Ralph knew what the symptoms were. Those were stressful times, to say the least, and the lack of sleep did not make things any better: he could barely recall the last time he had a decent night of sleep. He was not, of course, prone to panicking –were it the case, such a trait would have proven fatal long ago in his line of work –but there was only so much a person could take before reaching the breaking point, no matter how resilient he could be. Although, when he came to think of it, he had to admit that counter-examples abounded: Neimoidians, for instance, actually _did_ manage to build and to run one of the largest commercial empires of the Republic, while being, as the old saying went, "the only specie in the galaxy with an organ dedicated to worrying". Maybe, after all, nerves of steel were not a requirement for success –although, of course, the business world was usually a much safer place than galactic battlegrounds. Maybe he was just pushing himself too hard: but then again, if it was the case, then he had always been. And, at twenty-nine, after fifteen years of sacrifices, he was getting too old to change anything about it. The price he already paid, the things he had already done, they could not have been for nothing: he had to go all the way through.

Only the stimulants running through his body kept him awake and functional, but he had the feeling that his mind was long since gone; sometimes, he just felt like a droid –and a poorly programmed one. Perhaps part of his consciousness already had gone to rest. _In a gentler place._ Those had been one of his master's last words, before she definitely left the Jedi order, without notice. He would always remember her expression, her tone, when she last met him, on this foggy afternoon on Typhon, and said him that "she wished she had been born in a gentler galaxy". At the time, naturally, he did not understand what she truly meant. He assumed, as everyone else would have had, that she was simply tired. Tried by this never-ending cold-war and frustrated by the seemingly pointless efforts to end it. She had to go take a good sleep, ask the doctor for some relaxing pills, maybe meditate, take some R&R, and she would be back to her old self again before she knew it. But now, he knew what she really intended to convey: this feeling of emptiness that even trumped despair or anger, when it would seem that you have just stopped caring, about everything. About the war, the Siths, the futile in-fighting and subtlety of Jedi politics. He could not help but to wonder if his master did not want to somehow warn him; passing a last piece of wisdom to her former padawan. In this case, how she would be laughing if she could see him right now! Still playing the same old game, still abiding by those absurd rules, and all of this just to build a meaningless career and slowly climb the later of the order? Or, maybe it was something completely different. It could have been a desperate attempt to express her true feelings, for someone to hear them, share them, just for the sake of knowing that she was not alone in her struggle. She should have known better, he thought bitterly: what should have she expected from a ruthless careerist like him? To turn to her former padawan, even in dire circumstances, she should have been truly desperate.

He, on the other hand, did not share such misplaced hopes or complacent delusions: he had no padawan to warn, no friend to turn to. No, he would not step down to comforting himself. He had solely masters, inferiors and peers, all of which secretly despised him, but could not do anything else than tolerate him. He, himself, had its own use, which was the reason why he had gain a semblance of respect from its peers: he was a highly-competent, ideology-abiding and politically savvy young Jedi knight –and future master, if things went right. An ideal combination, for who wanted to survive in the Council's trail.

Behind the calm demeanour, the careful urbanity and the much vaunted tranquillity of Typhon, the struggle for power was indeed raging: powerful masters and prominent local barons expressed "concerns" about those they wanted to evict, praised the temperance and the altruism of their cronies and protégés, and "still hoped that one's connection to the force could be restored", when they baited on the wrong horse, and that the time was to damage control. But Ralph was not a fool either: as he had learned how to excel on countless battlegrounds, he had dedicated himself to always be one step ahead of his opponents in this veiled, but no less fierce political battle. Powerfully entrenched in an inextricable tangle of alliances, reciprocal favours and honorary charges, he was no longer a target: some people wanted to halt its ascent, of course, but, at least, they could not voice their plans publicly, for fear of facing the wrath –Jedi would phraseology would have been "discontent" –of the entire conservative coalition, always ready for the march. You could say many things about master Jaric Kaedan, but he knew how to defend his followers. And Ralph was not just any conservative supporter. Even promising people could be easily taken out of the game thanks to a well-organized smear campaign; even the slightest rumour could ruin someone's reputations overnight; but Ralph's record was stainless –he had made sure of it. He was not a shooting star, soon to be forgotten, as he would stumble on one carefully laid trap; he was a power to be reckoned. This was all that mattered. He was here to last; he would endeavour, and, as always, he would succeed, no matter the odds.

He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. The sound of his respiration slightly resonated in the silence of the room. He felt better, now: he would move on. Unlike his master, he would not run away from pressure, and, more importantly, he would not squander his career on a moment of weakness. You have to play the deck you have, sabback players would often say: Ralph could still find a goal to his existence, no matter how tenuous it was. It was a lonely road, an increasingly empty life, but it was still the best he could be hoping for.

If he had to be a ruthless, self-centred and bitter careerist, at the very least, he would be a _successful_ one.

When Ralph stood-up and left the conference room of the Temperance, his mind was no longer clouded by uncertainty or confusion, he was not even tired any longer. He had faced his moment of doubt, but his resolve had prevailed –as it should have been, and as it would always be. Soon, the ship would jump out of hyperspace; canons would roar, engines would burst out, hell would engulf them, but calmly, methodically, he would pursue his silent but irrepressible ascension.


End file.
